


Heir Apparent

by alexenglish



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - The Lion King Fusion, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Alternative Werewolf Lore, Blood and Injury, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Magical Claudia Stilinski, Past Character Death, Werewolf Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-08
Updated: 2016-08-08
Packaged: 2018-08-07 06:47:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7704550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexenglish/pseuds/alexenglish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been five years since Talia and her heir were killed by hunters. The Preserve and its pack have fallen to ruin under Peter's leadership, and Stiles... Stiles has just been trying to survive.</p><p>A Lion King AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heir Apparent

**Author's Note:**

> There's a bit of violence in this. An on-going mention of the deaths of both Claudia and Talia, but not in a creepy or morbid way. There's no werewolf hierarchy here, pack lineage works similar to a monarchy. Hope you enjoy!

It’s just shy of dawn when Stiles wakes with a jolt, heart beating at the top of his throat. It feels like the air has been vacuumed from the room, leaving him gasping. A tingle runs down his spine, waterfalls into his fingers, the tell-tale sign that he’s about to have a panic attack. Only he hasn’t had one in years, not since… well. 

There’s a dull ache under his ribcage, and he knows. 

Scott’s gone. 

Stiles scrambles up from his bed and bangs around the room, trying to find any clothes that belong to him. Ones that don’t smell like dirt, or sweat, or blood, or a disturbing combination of all three are incredibly difficult to locate. The whole room is a mess, clothes and trash belonging to four separate people carelessly strewn about. The other occupants of the room groan and curse. Jackson throws a shoe at his head, which Stiles catches deftly. 

“You’re lucky that’s mine,” Stiles says, in a rough voice, pulling on his jeans and socks before slipping the shoe on. The other’s under his bed, he ducks and scrambles towards it, rolling on his back to lace it up. The nearest shirt isn’t even his, but he’s done scouring the mess; he needs to get to Peter. 

He’s out of the room in less than two minutes, ignoring the curious calls of his awake housemates as he jets out of the dorms and down the path. 

The air feels wet and heavy as he jogs to the main house, the sharp cold of the autumn morning waking up his senses. The woods are barely stirring, weak sunlight starting to penetrate the light fog that’s on the ground. Bird sing, insects chirp. Stiles curses as he trips over a branch. 

There’s already a small crowd gathered at the door. He pushes his way between them, ignoring the annoyed growls, and stumbles through the door. The living room is where Peter will be with his ranking wolves, Stiles knows.

When he crosses the threshold, a hand fists in the front of Stiles’ shirt. His back hits the wall before he has time to register what’s happening, breath wheezing out of his body from the force of it. His head hits the plaster so hard, Stiles feels it dent, vision swimming. 

“Where is he?” Ennis asks, breathing in his face. Stiles pushes at his hands, but Ennis tightens his grip, snarling at Stiles, with sharp fangs and golden eyes.

“How the fuck would I know?” Stiles responds, huffing, trying to catch his breath with Ennis’ meaty hands pulling his shirt collar tight, lungs still working to catch up after being winded. 

“He’s your partner in crime,” Ennis growls, hoisting Stiles up higher, slamming him back into the wall again. 

“Fuck off,” Stiles grimaces, toes scrabbling on the floor as he tries to get purchase. He’s barely awake; it’s too early for this shit. 

“Let him go, Ennis,” Peter says, politely. 

Huffing, Ennis does as he’s told, and Stiles drops to the floor on the balls of his feet. The plaster presses against his shoulders as he stays against the wall. Ennis stares Stiles down before he turns and takes his place next to Peter. 

The blank, apathetic look Peter’s aiming his way isn’t a good sign. It’s never a good sign when Peter’s perfectly calm. 

“Do you know where he went?” Peter asks, voice quiet and curious. Stiles has to stop himself from flinching. They can all hear the way his heart is pounding, the way he smells like anxiety. At least they’ll know he’s not lying. 

“No,” he says. “I woke up and he was gone. I didn’t know he was leaving.”

If Stiles knew, he would have stopped Scott. He would have begged Scott to stay. The consequences of leaving aren’t worth the attempt. No one gets away. No one leaves and makes it out. People leave and wind up dead. 

The thought brings back the ache that he woke up with, laid over another, deeper ache that he can’t shake. What an idiot. Stiles can’t believe that this is happening again. That he’s going to lose someone else. 

“No hints, no mention of it?” Peter asks. He genuinely looks like he wants to know the answer. Stiles shakes his head quickly. 

“No, none at all,” Stiles says, out loud so they know he’s not keeping anything from them. No plausible deniability here. Only tried and true pack loyalty. The thought makes his gut shrink up with guilt. He doesn’t think about it. He can’t afford to. 

“Alright, you’re dismissed,” Peter says, with a lazy wave of his hand. Relief spirals through Stiles, making him slump back against the wall. It’s what he wanted, it is. Being dismissed means they’re not going to try to maim or torture him, but he knows he can’t leave it at that. 

“What’s going to happen?” Stiles asks quickly, before too much time has passed. Knowing is definitely worth pissing Peter off right now.

“We’re going to find him,” Peter says, smirk curling over his mouth, and yeah. Wow. 

“Let me go after him,” Stiles says. “Let me convince him to come back. Just, don’t…”

“Don’t what,” Peter prompts. He knows what, he does, but he’s going to make Stiles say it out loud in a room full of high ranking wolves. It’s probably some sort of ridiculous test to see how brave Stiles is, how far he’ll go for Scott.

There’s a beat while they wait. All of the wolves are watching Stiles, eyes glued to him. Some of them flash gold, faces full of amusement. Stiles looks at the ground before gritting his teeth. 

“Don’t kill him,” he says, plainly, heart jack hammering in his chest. “I’ll find him and bring him back.”

“If you do find him and he does come back, you’re suggesting he go without punishment?” Peter asks, surveying Stiles with a bored expression. Stiles meets his eyes quickly before looking at a spot over Peter’s shoulder. Direct eye contact is too difficult right now. 

“He’s strong,” Stiles says. “He’s no good to the pack dead --”

“He betrayed us,” Kali snaps, stepping forward. Peter’s arm shoots out, signalling her to stop. She does, rocking back, crossing her arms and looking away with a petulant expression. 

“I’ll bring him back,” Stiles says, finally pushing off the wall and standing up straight. “Then, you can figure it out. Just. Give me a chance before you throw him to the hyenas.”

“Wouldn’t the ‘hyenas’ accomplish the same thing you would?” Peter asks. He’s fucking with Stiles, Stiles knows he is. It takes everything in Stiles to tap down the anger that swells in his chest and ignore the way he wants to scream. 

“You know any wolf you send after him is going to go for the throat,” Stiles says, with far more bravado than he feels. There’s a tremor in his hands, but he ignores it, staring Peter down. “Let me bring him back alive.” 

For a minute, Stiles thinks Peter is going to say no. He thinks Peter is going to laugh at him, because it looks like he wants to, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. The only time Peter smiles is out of sadistic pleasure, and nothing else. Stiles is pretty sure Peter lost his ability to feel positive emotions without malicious intent long ago.

The silence drags on, but finally, _finally_ , Peter nods his head in affirmation, a quick jerk that has the overwhelming fear inside of Stiles shrinking back down to the normal, everyday fear that just means he’s alive and well on the Preserve. 

‘Well’ being the overstatement of the century, but beggars can’t be choosers. 

“Three days,” Peter says. “Three days to find him, and then I’m sending out my men.”

“Three days,” Stiles echoes, with a wobbly salute. He turns to leave, keeping any smug sense of victory to his damn self. He’s made enough enemies among Peter’s closest, he doesn’t need to add fuel to the fire. 

“Oh, and Stiles --” 

Stiles turns and waits, eyebrows raised. Peter has that blank expression on his face again; the one that makes Stiles feel like prey.

“Make sure you do come back,” he says. “Think of your father.”

Stiles knees go watery. 

“Of course,” he says, stretching a painfully false smile across his face. All the wolves in the room laugh at his expression, high and mean.

 

 

The minute he breaks the territory line, he feels the air shift. Magic clings to his skin, making the hair on his neck and his arms raise. Adrenaline pushes through his system, a simple reminder that he’s not supposed to be here. This isn’t his land; this land belongs to another pack. 

Stiles didn’t know there was a pack this far west. There hasn’t been a mention of one, ever. That’s something Stiles would know, considering he’s a _scout_. Who, y’know, scouts. Knowing preexisting packs in the area is required of a scout. He thought he knew them all. 

This is bad, really bad. 

A pack means his scrawny ass is currently in danger. He’s out of his territory, and he didn’t announce himself before stumbling into this particular plot of land. It doesn’t matter that he didn’t know. They’d still be within their rights to tear his throat open. 

Howls break out behind him, slicing through the night time heartbeat of the woods. Silence descends like a heavy curtain. Even the wind stops abruptly, like it’s holding its breath in anticipation. Stiles wonders if they were waiting for him to cross, waiting for their chance. 

Without thinking twice, he takes off towards the heart of the woods. The wolves are behind him, their paws falling heavily on the packed earth. Stiles runs without thinking, completely blind, lets the desire to stay alive propel him forward. He’s lithe, fast, but he feels like a rabbit, panicked and cornered. 

Shoes were a bad idea. He should ditch them, get better traction, but he’ll need them once he gets out of here, _if_ he gets out of here. 

The trees are thick this deep into the woods, crowding the sky so that barely any light from the fat, full moon hits the ground. Not that he needs it, but moonlight is welcome and warm, a far cry from the navy black shadows that cling to the ground. 

The wolves are pressing closer. He tries to dodge, tries to serpentine and lose them, but they’re spreading out behind him, waiting to circle him. The sound of his own pulse fills up his head, muscles straining as he pushes himself. 

A pair of hands on his shoulders drag him down, claws digging into his skin, ripping through his shirt. The force and shock of it makes Stiles topple over. The hands release him so their owner doesn’t go down with him. It gives Stiles enough space to somersault away and leap to his feet. 

The wolf who grabbed him is crouched in front of him, claws stained red with his blood, hair as golden as her bright eyes. His shoulders sting where she dug in, puncture wounds bleeding more than he thinks they should. 

He’s about to say something witty, defuse the situation, but she doesn’t give him a chance, instead she rushes him, slamming her shoulder into his sternum like a linebacker. He barely twists away when his balance is thrown, barely keeps his footing. 

That seems to be her tactic, trying to body slam him, so he dodges her the second time she charges at him. He takes off running again, back the way he came. Behind him, she snarls and howls, signalling. Stiles keeps running. 

If he can get back outside of the magical boundary, there’s a better chance of them leaving him the hell alone. It’s not a sure thing, but he needs to get out of here, needs a place to hide --

The thoughts are knocked out of his head as he’s clotheslined. An arm slams across his chest, making him topple straight onto his back, wind gusting out of him. It hurts, lungs aching as he tries to gulp in air. 

How many times is he going to land on his _back_ , what the f--

There’s a body on top of him, a snarling wolf with bright eyes glaring at him. This wolf is bigger, stronger; thighs holding Stiles’ hips down as he tries to fight, thrashing and pushing against the wolf with the flats of his hands. It’s no use, he has no leverage, trapped against the ground. 

Stiles raises up enough to crack their skulls together, sending the wolf reeling. It gives Stiles enough room to maneuver his shoulder between them and push up, dislodging the wolf’s weight. He kips up to his feet, crouching defensively, but he knows he’s lost. The other three break the line of trees and he’s surrounded. 

Stiles snarls and lets his fangs drop, claws pushing out, red clouding his vision. The wolf surges to the surface, all incandescent fury, teeth bared. If he’s going out, he’s taking someone with him. 

The wolf that tackled him stiffens, eyes blinking out, face smoothing out, back to human, back to -- 

Stiles chokes on air. 

“Stiles?”

“ _Derek_?” Stiles asks, choking on the name. There’s that ache again, the one that’s buried way down deep, the one he’s been ignoring for the past _five_ years. He stumbles backwards, losing his shift, blinking rapidly. His knees go weak, barely supporting his weight, he wants to crash to the ground. His ears are ringing. 

“You’re a werewolf,” Derek says, voice flat. 

“You’re _alive_.” 

 

 

There’s enough light to pick out Derek’s features, the sharp lines of his nose and cheekbones, his heavy eyebrows. There’s a thick beard on his jaw and his shoulders are impossibly wide. The last time Stiles saw Derek, he was barely 18, still gangly with a pigeon chest and too-big ears. The difference is enough to make Stiles’ vision swim. 

“You’re alive,” Stiles repeats, more firm this time. He feels like he’s going to throw up or pass out, or both. “You’re alive, Derek. You’re --”

“What the fuck is he talking about?” the girl that grabbed Stiles asks, stepping closer. Stiles looks at her, too shocked to back away from the very real danger of… her. He forgot they were here, too numb from the shock. The flutter of his pulse has white noise roaring in his ears. 

“When were you turned?” Derek asks, ignoring her. He steps closer, bare feet snapping twigs, crunching against leaves. Stiles can hear Derek’s heart beating in his chest, strong and steady. Stiles can hear the air being pulled into his lungs and leaving again. Signs of life, all of it. 

“You’re alive,” Stiles says, finally getting it together enough to take a step back. Maybe it’s a trick. Maybe he passed into witch territory and this is a grand hallucination. It feels too hard to breathe, like there’s so much less oxygen available than there was. 

“Stiles.”

“Derek,” Stiles says. 

He’s shaking. He didn’t realize. The shock is wearing off. He can feel his fingers trembling, heart crashing around in his ribcage. He feels panicky. He wants to run. He wants to leave. He doesn’t want to have to see Derek. 

They stare at each other for another minute before Derek steps forward again. Stiles lets him. He doesn’t know if he could move again. If he _wants_ to move. The feeling of Derek’s hand circling his wrist make Stiles flinch involuntarily, mouth dropping open at the touch of his warm fingers. Another sign of life. 

“Come with me,” Derek says, in a low voice. Stiles couldn’t argue if he wanted, so he nods dumbly and lets Derek tug him along, away from the others. 

They don’t follow, immediately falling into confused chatter that Stiles blocks out. Derek is still has his hand around Stiles’ wrist, right over his pulse point. There’s a wild feeling in Stiles’ chest, a surge of adrenaline from the touch alone. 

After a minute Derek lets go, checking over his shoulder to see if Stiles is following. He is. He’s not going to leave now, he knows it. There are a middle questions threatening to spill out of his throat, and he wants answers to all of them. 

The space between the trees gets larger as the woods thin out. A clearing comes into view as they break the tree line, a little log cabin sitting in the middle of it. The chimney is smoking. Something hysterical swells in Stiles’ chest, something frantic and confused.

Derek leads him up to the door and through the threshold. 

The minute the door closes behind them, Stiles grabs the front of Derek’s shirt and slams him into the wall. He doesn’t know what he _was_ going to do -- whether he was going to snarl at Derek, or growl in his face, or _sob_ and demand answers -- but what he does is kiss Derek. 

It’s hard and biting, teeth scraping over Derek’s bottom lip desperately. Stiles pushes their bodies together, pushes Derek against the door. They both groan in surprise. Stiles loosens his hold so he can drag his hands down Derek’s chest and grab his sides tightly, clinging to him. 

This is a bad idea. 

Distantly, Stiles _knows_ this is a bad idea, but he can’t stop himself. Some primal urge is rushing to the surface, and Stiles is drowning in it. His mind is fuzzy with Derek’s scent -- so different from what it used to be -- now adult and musky, underlain with mint and citrus. All Stiles can concentrate on is the feeling of Derek’s lips against his, the scrape of his beard over the soft skin of Stiles’ jaw. 

And Derek goes with it, body going pliant under Stiles’ hands, willing and wanting. Arousal blooms sweetly around them, making Stiles’ mouth water. It’s intoxicating, heady. He wants to bury himself in it, the feeling it gives him, pulse jumping in his throat as they kiss. 

Maybe part of the frenzy is the pull of the moon. Stiles always feels it, waxing or full or waning. The power and the violence trapped in his bones, desperate to get out. He lets it pour out of him now, takes it out on Derek with the hard press of his lips and the strong grip of his hands.

They break apart panting. Stiles draws back just far enough to yank Derek’s shirt over his head, dragging his nails through the thick hair on Derek’s chest. Everything about Derek feels so different, he’s suffocated by it. It’s been half a decade, Stiles reminds himself. That doesn’t help. 

Now’s not the time for an existential crisis, though. Derek’s pulling Stiles’ own shirt off, eyes sweeping down Stiles’ body, and Stiles straightens, feeling his appraisal. They’ve both changed. 

Stiles knows he’s nice to look at, body broadening with age, filling out with muscle. His hair is longer now, abs more defined, a tiny bit taller than Derek. He’s no longer the skinny, gangly boy he once was. 

“Don’t say something stupid like ‘you’ve grown up’,” Stiles pleads, tugging Derek closer again, pressing their mouths together. Stiles can taste it when Derek laughs, revels in the vibrations of the sound against his chest. 

“You have,” Derek says. It’s rough, and Stiles flushes with the way Derek is looking at him sharply. Stiles feels like prey, but it’s a good feeling. The kind of feeling Stiles gets when he _knows_ he’s wanted.

“Shut up,” Stiles demands, and drags him back for a kiss, palming Derek’s dick with his free hand. Derek moans and bucks up into it, pressing them together tightly, so that Stiles’ hand gets trapped between them. 

“Shut me up,” Derek growls, eyes flashing gold, and Stiles can do that, he really can. 

Red flags are springing up in his mind. He doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing. He has questions, but he’s not asking for answers. He’s about to stick his hands down Derek’s pants even though he thought Derek was dead for the past five years, and he just _doesn’t care_. 

All he cares about is the way Derek is tugging him away from the door and down the hall, the way he’s being pushed against Derek’s mattress. The sleep-sweet smell of Derek engulfs them, and Stiles’ chest burns hotly with want and _need_. 

He remembers this feeling. The overwhelming crash of desire inside of him when Derek was anywhere near him. He remembers the feeling of Derek’s lips on his, of Derek’s hands on his body. Five years later, Stiles can’t shake the frantic feeling he gets when their skin touches.

It’s amplified now that he’s a wolf. He can hear the way Derek’s heart is beating out of control, their pulses syncing up unconsciously. He can smell how much Derek wants this. It’s better. So much better.

Derek’s large hands pushing him down into the mattress roughly, one tangled in his hair, the other going for the buttons on his jeans while Stiles kicks off his shoes. They disconnect at the mouth long enough for Derek to tug Stiles’ pants off before shoving his own down his legs. They don’t bother with anything fancy, too caught up in kiss each other, unable to stop. 

Derek grinds his body against Stiles and Stiles arches against him, their dicks catching on each other. Everything is stifling, manic, overwhelming. The vibrations under Stiles’ skin are getting more insistent, like he’s going to explode or combust completely. 

Derek pulls back and leans over, pawing through the drawer next to his bed. There’s a bottle of lube in his hand and Stiles’ gut twists with want, a deep ache that he can’t shove down. But Derek doesn’t ask to fuck him, instead he drizzles lube on his hand and takes both their dicks in his palm, making a tight space for them to fuck into. 

“Oh,” Stiles says, back arching off the bed. There’s sweat pooling at the small of his back, at his hairline. It’s so hot underneath Derek, but he can’t get enough. Stiles digs his heels into Derek’s low back, keeping him close. 

Not that he needs to encourage Derek. They’re pressed together at every point. Stiles can feel Derek’s shallow pants against the skin of his collar, the rough callouses on his palm as their cocks slide together. 

“Oh,” Derek repeats, with a teasing smirk on his face. Stiles huffs out a laugh, but doesn’t complain, too focused on the pressure building deep inside him, the surge of urgency as he tips close to the edge. 

“Fuck, gunna come,” he admits, toes curling, planting his foot for more friction. 

“Yeah,” Derek pants, tightening his grip. They pant into each other’s mouths. The air feels thick, honeyed with arousal and the combined scent of each other. Stiles wants to sob it’s so good. 

Derek leans down to kiss him again, distracting Stiles with his mouth and quick tongue. Stiles’ orgasm blindsides him, making him moan loudly and clench at Derek’s back, nails digging in. 

He’s still dizzy from coming, but he manages to knock Derek’s hand away from them both and grabs Derek’s cock. There’s enough of Stiles’ come between them to slick the way. 

“Fuck, Stiles,” Derek says. When he comes, it’s quiet, but intense, mouth dropping open, eyes glazing over. Stiles can’t look away, too caught up in the pink on Derek’s cheeks, the way his hair is mussed up, the scratches over the skin of Derek’s shoulder that Stiles doesn’t remember putting there. 

Derek rolls off him, landing face-up on the mattress, chest heaving. A weird sense of calm settles over Stiles, like the moon isn’t full, like his wolf could give less of damn now that he’s next to Derek. Not that Stiles wants to explore that thought in-depth tonight. After mutual orgasms, that’s a heavy topic to consider. 

Stiles starts giggling -- a little hysterically. 

“I left my socks on,” Stiles says, when Derek shoots him a questioning look. A smile tugs at the corner of Derek’s mouth and, well -- it’s something.

 

 

When Stiles wakes up he, very clichely, doesn’t know where the hell he is. Instead of lying there silently, contemplating his existence until he remembers, he yelps and rolls out of bed. If he was still human, he would have landed on the ground, sprawled on his ass. Since he’s not, he lands in a crouch, eyes darting around. 

He remembers as soon as he realizes he’s naked. 

Right. Derek. 

He shoves a hand through his hair with a sigh and locates his briefs from the mess of clothes on the ground. It’s nice, having their things thrown together, having the room smell like both of them. He lets himself feel a shock of fondness before he pushes it down. 

In the light of day, things are incredibly messy. 

Stiles realizes and acknowledges that sleeping with Derek, then falling asleep before they could talk about anything, complicated things further. But, he’s never claimed to be a saint. Even if Derek had been magical hallucination, he didn’t want to pass up the chance. 

Now that he thinks about it, he _still_ doesn’t know if Derek’s real or not. Usually people who get raised from the dead are way more decomposed, and definitely too mindless to have sex or use their words. So, he’s probably not back from the dead. Which means, he’s been alive. 

The thought makes Stiles’ stomach sour. He already has a splitting headache and he’s hungry to his bones -- a full moon hangover -- which is something he rarely gets now that he’s been a wolf for longer, but considering his wild night, he’s not surprised. He doesn’t really want to explore all the ways this Derek situation is seriously fucked up, but he knows he has to.

There’s no way to really _brace_ himself, so he leaves the room to find Derek. 

“No morning after breakfast?” Stiles asks, leaning his hip against the kitchen counter. Derek’s standing at the breakfast bar in his underwear, eating a large bowl of Wheaties, and looking at Stiles with a blank expression. 

He’s closed off now that the moon is down. Now there are these walls thrown up that Stiles probably won’t be able to get past easily. Stiles gets that, he does. Everything gets dragged up to the surface when that space rock is fully illuminated. Urges, desires -- all pushed to the top and amplified, everything dialled up to 11. 

It’s hard to ignore that raw emotion, especially with the kind of history he and Derek have. 

Which is how Stiles knows it was real, because he knows Derek, he’s known Derek for most of his life. Derek loving Stiles, wanting Stiles, has never been a question. Everything else -- literally _everything else_ is a question mark though. 

First and foremost:

“How are you alive?” Stiles asks, hands curling into a fist on the counter top. Anxiety making his head rush. He’s not sure if he wants the answers to all the questions he has, but he knows he needs them. If they’re walking away from this, Stiles needs to know what happened. “It’s been five years.”

“You really want to talk about this now?” Derek asks, arching an eyebrow. The look on Derek’s face is so frustratingly _not Derek_ that Stiles wants to scream, a little. Except that it _is_ Derek. Apparently, this is how Derek _is_. Closed off and wary of _Stiles_. (Which is B-S, all things considered. Stiles isn’t the one who faked his death for five years.)

An achy sort of pang goes through Stiles. The Derek Stiles remembers was always so carefree, always smiling. He was cocky and sure of himself. Now, he looks… smaller -- like he’s folding in on himself, refusing to take up anymore space than necessary. 

Maybe that’s the difference between an heir and a fugitive. 

“Yeah, I do,” Stiles admits, shrugging his shoulders. 

“Why don’t you tell me why you’re a werewolf,” Derek counters. Stiles smirks. 

“I got bit. Maybe the next question you ask should be more difficult.”

“Why were you bit?” Derek asks, scowling. 

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Stiles says, rapping his knuckles on the counter quickly. “You get a question, I get a question. So on and so forth.”

“Fine,” Derek says, scowling darkly. There’s no victory in the acquiescence, but Stiles will take what he can get. 

“How are you alive?” Stiles asks, again. He’ll keep asking it, until Derek tells him the truth. He locks onto Derek’s heart, memorizing the steady beat of it, not trusting Derek to be honest. “Peter said you were dead.”

Derek’s watching him. The expression on his face is frustratingly blank, but Stiles has known Derek for so long, knows the way his eyes look when he’s sad. It’s a miracle that he can get even the tiniest read on Derek’s emotions right now. 

“Peter lied,” Derek says, tightly, looking away from Stiles to stare out the window. The light traces his profile, making him glow angelically. The downturned corner of Derek’s mouth is making Stiles’ chest hurt. “I got scared, and I ran.”

“Why?” Stiles demands, sharply, voice cracking. His heart is pounding hard, palms starting to sweat. Two faux panic attacks in two days, gotta love high levels of stress. He hates how angry he feels. “We lost Talia, and you just _left_. You left us for no good fucking reason.”

 _You left me_ , Stiles wants to say, but he bites his tongue until he tastes blood. Rage is pounding in his head, slamming into the back of his skull.

“No reason?” Derek asks, laughing bitterly. Stiles wants to snarl at him. “I had a reason, Stiles.”

“Everyone was hurt, Derek,” Stiles snaps. “Everyone misses her. But we stuck together and you _ran_. And you let us believe you were _dead_ for five years!”

“I didn’t know Peter was going to lie,” Derek says, finally looking at Stiles again. His cheeks are pink, and Stiles feels maliciously victorious the more Derek emotes. Even negative emotions are better than that damn blank-faced stare. 

“It doesn’t matter what the hell he said, you still left us!” Stiles says, angry now, unable to keep his voice down. His vision is red around the edges, control slipping. “Talia Hale’s goddamn _heir_ up and left without a good-fucking-bye. And for _what_ \--” Stiles throws his hands up and gestures around -- “Some cabin in the woods, living a quiet life. Is it worth it, Derek? You fucking abandoned us in our hour of fucking need for _this_!”

“It was my fault!” Derek roars. The counter top crumbles under his hands, knuckles white from how hard he’s gripping it. When he lets go, pieces of stone clatter to the floor. Derek’s eyes are gold, boring into Stiles, and Stiles’ heart leaps into his throat. “She’s dead because of me! You think I could go back? With that knowledge? I ran away because I’m the reason my mother is _dead_. I didn’t just abandon the pack, I betrayed you all!”

It feels like Derek came up and punched Stiles directly in the lungs. The words make his head swim, he clings to the counter top to steady himself. 

“How -- You didn’t --” Stiles knows it sounds like he’s pleading, but it’s not true. Derek would never --

“I used to go into town alone and hang out with people,” Derek says, voice quiet again. It’s a shock to Stiles’ senses, ears still ringing from Derek’s outburst, the shotgun-crack of the counter breaking. 

“Alone?” Stiles asks, voice weak. None of the wolves were allowed in town without being accompanied by a ranking wolf. There was too much risk involved. Too many people wanted to know how to get past the wards set up to protect the Preserve. Every precaution was necessary when exiting and entering again. 

“Hunters followed me back,” Derek says. The look in his eyes is glazed over. It’s not sad, or angry, or even guilty looking. It’s hollow, devoid of every emotion; Derek’s checked out. “Got to know the wrong group of people, didn’t listen when my mom warned me to stay away. A group of them got passed the wards. Mom was there, but -- well, you know the rest.”

Stiles squeezes his eyes shut so hard, the backs of his eyelids bloom with red, black spots floating in front of him when he opens them again. That tight, hot feeling is pressing against his temples, but he refuses to cry. 

“It’s not your fault that they did that,” Stiles says, once he’s able to unstick his throat. Derek looks so lost. Stiles doesn’t know how to help him. “The pack would have understood. They _will_ understand. When you come back, you’ll see.”

Derek laughs at him, loud and mocking. Stiles looks at the counter top, heat flaring in his cheeks. 

“I’m not going back,” he says, once he sobers, face set with determination. Stiles very suddenly wants to punch him in the mouth. 

“Why _not_?” he demands, digging his nails into his palms so that he doesn’t sprout claws. 

“I fucked up, and I left. Everyone thinks I’m dead. You’re all better off without me.”

It’s Stiles’ turn to laugh. He laughs so hard that his sides start to ache and his throat tears raw. 

“That’s the best joke you’ve ever fucking told,” Stiles says, cruelly. He feels like chucking something. Something heavy and breakable, preferably. 

“Stiles,” Derek says, heaving a sigh. Stiles holds up his hand to stop the impending lecture.

It’s obvious that Derek genuinely believes that the pack is better off without him. That being stalked by a group of hunters dead set on murdering werewolves makes him responsible for a homicide. He thinks it’s _his_ fault, that they’re better off without him. 

Stiles breathes evenly and makes his way around the breakfast bar, sparing a thought for how absurd this all is, both of them yelling at each other in their underwear. It’s probably funny, on some level.

Once he’s in front of Derek, he spins, showing Derek his back.

“What?” Derek’s breath catches in his throat. Before Stiles can react, Derek’s fingertips are dragging against his skin, fitting perfectly against the three thick scars that lie diagonally across his spine. 

Stiles flinches away quickly, stepping back so there’s a couple feet of distance between them. His stomach is turning, threatening to spew all over the tile. He’s shaking, hands trembling, he can’t help it -- he remembers the searing pain when Ennis dug his claws into his skin, red blood spilling over his sides and pooling on the floor. He remembers the way the marks burned when they rubbed the wolfbane in, grinding it into the wounds so that they would scar over. 

“It’s what he does to bitten wolves,” Stiles says, dragging in deep breaths. Derek’s staring at him. Just _staring_. “The scars means we’re his. That he owns us.”

The only werewolves with scars. The Preserve pack. The last five years have been spent building up this reputation. Stiles can’t believe he’s a part of it sometimes, how absurd it is. How their pack went from thriving and peaceful to… whatever it is they are now. A ruined pack with a savage leader.

“Stiles --”

“No,” Stiles snaps, letting his voice fill up the space between them, letting Derek hear how angry he is. Derek needs to understand what the hell is happening. “The Preserve is teeming with hunters now. He made a pact with them, after they killed Talia.”

“A pact?” Derek asks. 

“They control the territory together. The hunters help Peter, Peter makes us do shit for them,” Stiles says. It’s funny how steady his voice is as he admits everything. Detachment has always been the best way to deal with things. “We track down omegas, Derek. If they don’t join us, he kills them.”

Derek doesn’t say anything.

“I’m a scout,” Stiles continues. “I look for other packs, for other territories, for human towns. People to intimidate into joining the ranks or give the bite to. I have a _quota_.”

“If you don’t meet it?” Derek asks, timidly, like he’s afraid to. The wide-eyed look on his face is so heartbreaking, but this is the reality of it, this is Stiles’ life. 

“You really, _really_ don’t want to know that,” Stiles says, lowly. Stiles doesn’t like to think about the times he’s been punished for not bringing back any news. Derek doesn’t need to know about Stiles being starved or beaten. He probably gets the idea.

Derek’s quiet again. 

“They almost killed Scott,” Stiles says, lump forming in his throat. Everything that’s happened to him, everything they’ve done to him, will never be worse than _that_ day. “The day I was bitten. He -- he tried to stop them.”

Stiles remembers screaming himself hoarse telling Scott to stop, to get away from the wolves. He remembers Scott’s blood forming puddles in the dirt, remembers the way his body looked so, so broken. 

“The only reason he got the bite was because they didn’t want to lose both of us.”

Because Stiles begged until his voice was raw, until he couldn’t breathe. Because Stiles literally grovelled at Peter’s feet to spare Scott’s life, knowing that he couldn’t do it without Scott. Because Stiles was too selfish to let Scott go, even though death was so much more preferable than being part of Peter’s pack. 

“Stiles,” Derek says. He sounds so sad. 

Stiles shuts his eyes, suddenly exhausted. 

“The Nemeton is dying,” Stiles says. It sounds like a plead. That’s exactly what it is. “It’s a _stump_. Peter’s neglecting it. He’s neglecting the pack. The land is poisoned. The whole wood is going to die, and we’ll have to move on from the Preserve.”

From their home. From the home they’ve had for hundreds of years. Before Derek was born, before Talia. Generations and generations of werewolves were born and died on that land, and Peter is too proud and too stubborn to admit that he’s killing it all. 

“We need you,” he says. “We need you to come back.”

 

 

“We’re going to see Deaton,” Derek told him, after their argument in the kitchen. After silence descended so heavily, Stiles was choking on it. Derek was barely meeting Stiles’ eyes, and Stiles tried not to give a shit. 

It’s been nearly 24 hours since he left the Preserve. One whole day eaten away, no sign of Scott. It’s not fair that he stumbled on Derek within this time constraint. That he’s going to have to leave soon, and he has no idea what’s going to happen with Derek… or with them.

It’s a selfish concern, but he can’t ignore the burning desire to figure their shit out. He used to think about it a lot, when he thought Derek was dead. About what things would be like if Talia was alive, and Derek was there. He used to dream of a peaceful Preserve, happy and thriving. Of being with Derek, like he should have been. Getting married, like they promised.

Stiles chucks the thought out of his mind. It’s been years since he’s allowed himself to think like this, with this much hope. Detachment truly is his greatest coping mechanism. It’s more difficult now, as he follows Derek around the tiny town. 

Derek is here, he’s tangible. This isn’t a dream Stiles is going to wake up from. There’s a chance to fix things, to make them better. Hope is a cruel thing. Hope promises happiness. That’s all Stiles wants. He’s done with heartbreak, he’s over it. He wants a happy ending. They deserve that. 

He’s pulled out of his head by Derek’s hand on his wrist, gripping it tightly. A wolf rounds the corner, straight towards them. Stiles is pretty sure he’s was in the woods last night. He’s built like a brick shithouse, hair shaved down to the skin. Stiles would be wholly intimidated if Derek didn’t know the wolf. 

Well, he’s still intimidated, but he does a good job of hiding it.

“Boyd?” Derek prompts, when the wolf comes to a halt in front of them, eyes blazing gold.

“Another one broke the territory line,” Boyd says, eyes darting towards Stiles before jumping away again. 

“From the east?” Derek asks.

Boyd nods sharply. “Erica and Isaac have gone to check -- they think it’s his packmate.”

“Mine?” Stiles asks, heart pounding loudly. 

What if someone followed him here? Stiles didn’t even think of that, hadn’t even considered it when he went off with Derek. What if he led them here? To Derek and the others, without a second thought?

“Did anyone follow you?” Derek asks, voice sharp, probably thinking the _exact_ same thing as Stiles is. Stiles shakes his head, he doesn’t know. He steps away from Derek and turning his head east. 

If it is someone from his pack, he’ll be able to tell, because _pack_ , duh. He lets Derek and Boyd’s presence filter to the background, senses expanding through the woods, back to where he broke the property line last night. 

It’s so serene, Stiles thinks. This time of day at the Preserve is chaotic with wolves training, leaving for their missions, bickering; hunters lurk around the edges, watching them, firing off their guns so wolfsbane smoke sits heavily in the air. The animals abandoned them long ago, so it’s difficult for Stiles not to stop and make note of every squirrel and every bird.

He can’t feel Erica and Isaac very well. They’re not his pack, and he doesn’t have enough experience with outsiders to really _feel_ them on that weird, subconscious level he can with packmates. He can hear their hearts, the crunch of leaves underfoot as they run. 

There’s nothing else, nothing, nothing, until --

“Holy shit!” Stiles yelps, and takes off in that direction, feet hitting the ground hard. He hears Derek and Boyd behind him, yelling at him, but he ignores them, rushing through the woods, correcting his course twice. 

It doesn’t take long for the wolf to come into view, sprinting towards him with Erica and Isaac hot on his heels. Stiles yells again, something inarticulate and happy. Scott laughs, still flying towards him. 

They collide, gripping each other so tightly that Stiles feels his ribs crunch. Scott’s warm, earthy scent surrounds them and Stiles feels some of the tension go out of his shoulders, a mantra of ‘ _alive, alive, alive_ ’ going off in his head. When they pull apart, Stiles runs his hands over Scott’s arms and back and sides, through his hair. 

“I’m okay, I’m okay,” Scott pants, smiling at Stiles. He swats at Stiles’ hands, pouting. “I’m fine, Stiles, Stiles.”

“You’re an asshole,” Stiles says, once he’s satisfied that Scott _is_ okay, that he is fine.

“Stiles --” 

“No, shut up,” Stiles snaps, hands curling around the upper portion of Scott’s arms. Scott looks good, eyes bright and amused. Not starved from wandering the woods (it’s been a day, Stiles knows, but he’s allowed his dramatics). Not wild-eyed and terrified like he should be, considering the pack he ran away from. Typical Scott, laughing in the face of danger. 

“What are the you doing!?” Stiles demands. “What the _fuck_ are you doing?”

“I can explain --”

“You better,” Stiles says, sharply. “Do you know what it felt like waking up with you _gone_? Just like that? No idea what happened? I didn’t think that would happen to me again, Scott. Not _again_.”

His breathing is too shallow, and god, he’s terrified. He repressed the panic so far, but with Scott in front of him and okay and definitely not dead, it spirals through him again. If he lost Scott, he doesn’t know what he would do.

“Stiles, Stiles,” Scott shushes him, hands gentle on the sides of his neck so that Stiles calms down. 

Between deep swallows of air, Stiles realizes that the others have formed a loose circle around them, watching them. It’s tense, awkward. Stiles wants to hide his face in Scott’s neck, cheeks flushing. Way to go, Stilinski, nice outburst. 

“I’m sorry,” Scott says, quietly, like it’s a private moment even though it really, very much isn’t. “I couldn’t tell you, you had to be able to tell Peter the truth.”

“What a stupidly logical thing to do,” Stiles snaps, still blindsided by how upset he is. Scott pats his arm, giving him a sympathetic look. Stiles is still so angry that he left, but he’s happier that he’s alive and that’s really what matters. 

“Derek!” Scott says, turning away from Stiles and jumping on Derek, hugging him. Derek blinks at Stiles over Scott’s shoulder, but he’s hugging Scott as tightly as Scott is hugging him.

“Shouldn’t there be more shock and horror in your voice?” Stiles asks, gesturing between Scott and Derek when Scott decides to untangle himself. “Derek is alive! Ahh!”

“I’m not that surprised,” Scott says. When Stiles raises his eyebrows sharply, Scott shrugs. “I had a dream.”

“Of course you did,” Stiles says, squinting at him. 

“Magical dreams,” Scott replies, giving Stiles a sad smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Guess I had some juju left over from being human.”

Stiles looks away sharply, trying to ignore the hot surge of regret that gives him. Not that either of them could have prevented what happened. But sometimes it feels like he betrayed his mom by not being able to keep her magic alive. The bite ripped it away from him. It makes Stiles feel her loss so much more acutely. 

Scott feels the same way, Stiles knows. They talked about it plenty after they first got bit. Losing magic is like losing a limb, they both were left reeling. It’s been years, now. They’ve moved on. For the most part. 

“Talia?” Stiles asks, throat sticky. Scott nods, glancing at Derek. To his credit, Derek hardly flinches. 

“She wanted me to give these to you,” Scott says. He pulls a short, brown envelope out of his pocket and hands it over. When Derek opens it, his eyes go wide, surprised. 

“What?” Stiles asks, stalking over. “What is -- oh.”

The contents of the bag tip out onto Derek’s palm. Talia Hale’s claws. 

 

 

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Stiles asks. Again. For like the sixth time in as many minutes. Not that he doesn’t trust the last six answers Derek has given, but he wants Derek to be _sure_. 

“Yes, Stiles,” Derek says, huffing. He’s sitting in front of Stiles, head bent so Stiles is staring at the back of his neck. There’s a mole below his hairline. 

“I’ve never done this before,” Stiles reminds him. Stiles is definitely sweating. “I could seriously hurt you. Paralyze you, even. I don’t want to be responsible for that.”

Derek turns and glares at him, nostrils flaring haughtily. “No offense to anyone in this room, but you’re kind of the only person I trust inside my head. So, just. Get it over with.”

“Oh,” Stiles says, blinking rapidly, chest getting stupidly tight from Derek’s admission. They stare at each other, quick heart beats filling up Stiles’ head with static. “Okay, I. Okay.”

“Stiles,” Derek says again, flatly. 

“Going,” Stiles says, reaching his hand down. He’s not really sure how the claws attach themselves, what kind of magic it is. One minute they’re not attached and the next they are. His whole hand feels heavier, tingly. There’s a comment here about Derek’s dead mom being a part of him now, but he bites his tongue. That’s inadvisable.

“Ready,” Derek says. It sounds like he’s bracing himself. As he should be. 

Stiles shoots a glance at Deaton, who gives him a small nod of approval. 

Stiles likes Deaton. Deaton’s the local druid who claims again and again that he’s neutral, even though it’s obvious that Deaton’s loyal to Derek and his rag-tag pack of wolves. It’s reassuring to know that someone has Derek’s back out here. Someone as powerful as Stiles and Scott could have been, once upon a time. 

When they got to his shop, he took one look at the claws, thrust them at Derek. “The past can hurt. You can either run from it, or learn from it,” he said, sagely, with a completely straight face, as Derek balked. That’s when Stiles decided he liked Deaton. 

Stiles looks to Scott, who nods too, looking so concentrated and serious that Stiles can’t help but giggle. The tension on Scott’s face breaks, and he gives Stiles a small smile. 

Stiles takes a deep breath, and plunges the claws in. 

It’s a trip, being sucked into someone’s head. The world goes black, his ears pop. His vision tilts and shifts, fuzzy and disoriented. 

When his eyes focus, he’s standing in the Preserve. It’s dreamy, soft around the edges. Sunlight filtering through the trees. Derek’s next to him, but not the Derek he is now. It’s Derek at 18: smaller frame, no beard, ears sticking out. Stiles’ chest aches.

_They’re at the top of the ravine, but not at the edge. Stiles can’t make himself get that close, can’t make himself look over. If he looks over, he knows what he’ll see at the bottom, and he doesn’t know if he can stand that. Derek can’t seem to either. He has his back to it, hands fisted at his sides. The coppery smell of blood fills the air as he digs his claws into his palms, unable to control himself._

_The hunters are long gone, carrying the scent of wolfsbane and smoking guns with them. Stiles stays rooted in place, unable to move, completely frozen._

_There are footsteps behind them. Careful ones, familiar ones._

_When Stiles turns around, Peter’s there, watching Derek with his sharp, sharp gaze._

_“What did you do?” he asks. He’s so calm, so blank. Derek shrinks._

_“I didn’t --”_

_“What did you do?” Peter demands, louder now. Birds fly out of the nearest tree, startled by the noise._

_“I didn’t mean to,” Derek says, unfurling his hands. Blood’s thick on his skin. Stiles wants to cry._

_“But you did,” Peter snarls. “You led them here. You betrayed us.”_

_“I --”_

_“Talia’s at the bottom, isn’t she?” Peter asks. It’s all so, so cruel. Stiles wants to scream at him. It wasn’t Derek’s fault, he didn’t know. He didn’t_ know.

_“Mom,” Derek says, weakly. He turns his head halfway, then thinks better of it. He doesn’t look. Stiles doesn’t want him to._

_“You brought them here,” Peter says. He’s stalking towards Derek, body rigid with barely contained fury. “This is your fault.”_

_“No, I -- no, Peter.”_

_“You’re to blame.”_

_Derek’s not looking at Peter anymore, but Stiles is. He can see the smirk on Peter’s face, the barely-contained glee that’s so hard identify -- unless you’ve spent the last five years seeing it on Peter’s face every time he makes a kill, that is. And Stiles knows, suddenly and surely, that this is Peter’s fault. He_ did _this._

_Stiles doesn’t know how, or why, or when Peter planned it. But Talia’s death is Peter fault. Stiles opens his mouth, to rage and scream and accuse and --_

The scene shifts and they’re in the main house. The fireplace is lit, casting the living room in a warm glow. Stiles knows it’s from _before_. The whole room is so inviting and cozy, well loved and lived-in. Nothing like it is in real life, now that Peter’s holed up there more often than not.

Stiles is curled up in an armchair across from the couch where Derek is sitting with his feet tucked under him. He’s wearing a thick sweater with thumb holes. He looks so painfully young that Stiles’ breath catches.

“Why did you go there?” Talia asks, gently. She’s sitting across from Derek, close to him, exactly as Stiles remembers her. Endlessly beautiful, sun tanned skin and deep green eyes. Her long hair is pulled up into a bun. She looks comfortable, serene. Stiles misses her so much. 

Derek avoids her eyes by looking at the seat of the couch.

“I think about it a lot,” he admits, with a little self-conscious shrug. 

“Don’t,” Talia says, gently, reaching forward so she can push Derek’s hair off his forehead. He finally looks at her, and she smiles. Adoration and forgiveness, all bundled up into one. “It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t ever your fault.”

Derek opens his mouth -- to argue probably.

“Derek,” Stiles says, weakly. He doesn’t actually expect them to hear him, but both of them look at him. Stiles swallows down the tight feeling in his throat. “She’s right. It wasn’t your fault.”

Derek looks away again. Stiles wants to tell him about Peter, about what he thinks Peter did, but Talia shakes her head at him. Stiles nods. He’ll tell Derek later. After they get out of his head.

“I need you to make a choice,” Talia says. Her voice is still soft and reassuring. Stiles lets it sink into his bones, lets himself miss her more than anything. “I need you to remember your promises. I need you to decide what you’re going to do. ”

“What if I make the wrong decision?” Derek asks, pulling his knees up to his chest, looking completely lost. “What if I mess up again?”

“You won’t,” Talia says, firmly. “You’ll know what to do now. I have faith in you, Derek.”

Complete surprise comes over Derek’s face, like he wasn’t expect her to say that, like he can’t imagine why she would. Stiles didn’t realize the extent of the burden Derek was carrying around before, but he gets it. The blame and crippling self-doubt is all there. Stiles can see it now that he’s in Derek’s head, he can _feel_ it.

The moment is so painful, Stiles can barely stand to watch. 

“They need you. The pack needs you. They need a leader.”

“I’m not that person anymore,” Derek says. “I left it behind, mom. I ran away.” 

“Then you run back,” Talia says, firmly. She leans over and taps Derek’s chin with her knuckles, making him look up at her. After a second of hesitation, he does. “You remember where you belong, and you run back, Derek.”

And she’s gone. 

All the air gets sucked out of the room abruptly, winding Stiles. He knows he’s being pushed out of Derek’s head, but -- he doesn’t want to go. It’s too soon. He wants to see Talia again, he wants to listen to her voice, he wants her back --

“No, no, no,” Stiles says, jumping out of the chair, trying to run through the house and look for her, even though it feels like he’s suffocating. He leaves Derek behind as he sprints down the hall, through the swinging door that leads to the formal dining room. Through the arch at the far end of the dining room, stumbling into the kitchen --

Talia’s there, standing at the kitchen island. She smiles at him and Stiles still can’t breathe, but he fights it, memorizing her face. She gestures across from her, and --

Stiles’ mom is standing there, just _standing there_ , light around her head like a halo. Her eyes are amber, sparkling with mischief and magic, dark hair falling in waves around her face, skin pink and healthy, and she’s the most beautiful thing Stiles has ever seen. 

A pain goes through his chest, sharp. He feels so fragile as she looks at him, as she smiles at him. 

“It’ll be okay, Stiles,” she says, muffled, like she’s far away. Stiles knows she is. She’s so far away. 

The edges of his vision go black, and he takes one last look at her before he lets go completely.

 

 

Stiles gasps as he comes up for air, sucking in deep breaths, trying to get his lungs working right. The claws drop off his fingers, clattering onto the floor. Scott’s at his side, steadying him. Derek’s turned in his chair, wide eyes locked with Stiles’. They breathe for a moment, letting themselves settle.

Stiles looks at Derek, and he knows. He can see the resolve written all over Derek’s face. In that moment he’s stupidly proud and overwhelmingly in love. 

“What do we do now?” Stiles asks, with a tease of a smile. Derek stands and holds out his hand for Stiles to take, pulling Stiles away from the wall, steadying Stiles as his legs shake from Talia’s magical claws. 

“We run back,” Derek says, softly, lacing their fingers together. 

 

 

_The sun is rising over the hills in the distance, lighting up the sprawling valley below them in hues of pink and yellow, so soft and light. They’re sitting on the cold hood of Stiles’ Jeep, at the highest lookout point, the entire Preserve spread out beneath them._

_It’s like a dream, Stiles thinks, tracing the run of the river with his eyes, down to the big lake right below them -- affectionately nicknamed the Watering Hole, like they’re a pack of wild animals. From up here, he can see the houses spread through the woods, the little gaps they leave in the trees, smoke from chimneys climbing towards the brightening sky._

_Stiles takes a deep breath and holds it, letting it out slowly. The crisp autumn air fills up his lungs, waking him up. It feels good, fresh._

_“It’s too early,” Derek grumbles, pulling his leather jacket tighter around himself. His fingers catch on the too-long sleeves, curling around the edges to hold them down. He looks cozy. Like a cozy badass._

_Stiles tells him as much, just to hear him laugh._

_“C’mon sunrise is the best,” Stiles whines, kicking his heels against the front of his Jeep. His shoes bounce, so he keeps doing it. Derek’s hot palm curls around his knee to stop the movement, so Stiles settles. Derek doesn’t move his hand away._

_“Why are we here, again?” Derek asks, rubbing his thumb on the outside of Stiles’ knee. It’s hypnotic, makes Stiles’ breath catch like a total cliche._

_“Everything the light touches is your kingdom,” Stiles says, in a low voice, wiggling his eyebrows, trying to break the tension._

_“Not yet,” Derek says, but he’s smirking playfully. Stiles knows he likes that, likes the reminder that the Preserve and all its memories are part of his legacy._

_“Eventually,” Stiles concedes, wiggling closer so that he can lean into Derek’s side. Derek lets him. Small miracles._

_He’s still not entirely sure what they’re doing. Sometimes it feels like something important and serious, something profound and weighted. Sometimes when they’re alone together, it feels like they’re the only ones in the entire world. It feels like he’s so full of joy and weirdly intense affection that he’s going to burst. Sometimes when they kiss, he feels like he’s going to vibrate out of his skin. It feels so new, but it’s so familiar, an extreme juxtaposition of feelings that make Stiles dizzy._

_Other times it feels like pure fun, like a game of cat and mouse, chasing and teasing and being young and…_

_Stiles hesitates to say ‘in love’, mostly because Derek hasn’t mentioned it yet, but he’d be lying if he denied it._

_“Do you remember the first time we kissed?” Derek asks, out of the blue._

_“Not too long ago,” Stiles says, nodding, nuzzling into Derek’s shoulder. It was a good day. They trained with Scott in the morning, and Derek was… Derek. So sure of himself, strong, but gentle as he worked with them on their hand-to-hand techniques._

_Stiles decided to hang back after Scott went back to the dorms to clean up, and Derek looked at him like he knew exactly what Stiles was thinking. He probably did, didn’t even act surprised when Stiles shoved him into a tree and kissed his face off._

_It had been coming for a long time. Years, even._

_“No, the real first time we kissed,” Derek says, raising his eyebrows at Stiles. “Not the second first kiss.”_

_Stiles sits up so fast, his head spins. He wrinkles his nose and shakes his head sharply._

_“There weren’t two first kisses,” Stiles says, face getting hot. “I think you’re mistaken. There was only that one, a few months ago.”_

_“No, I’m pretty sure there was one before that,” Derek says, turning towards him with a teasing smile. It lights up his whole face. A warm ball of light makes its home in Stiles’ chest, and he is so stupidly in love. “You were like 12 --”_

_“13,” Stiles corrects, with a scowl. This is embarrassing. He can’t believe he was just thinking about sappy emotions and all that while Derek was thinking of… this. Ugh._

_“You just like, headbutted me --”_

_“I was_ rushing _\--”_

_“All bothered because you thought we were betrothed --”_

_“Your mom said I had to be married to you to be part of the pack, even with my magic!”_

_“She was using me as an_ example _.”_

_“Derek Hale,” Stiles pouts. “Stop reminding me of the single most embarrassing moment of my life, please. Unless you have a point? I’m honestly mortified.”_

_“It was cute,” Derek says, face sobering up. He’s looks so serious now, staring at Stiles with bright eyes and a calculating gaze. The blush burning Stiles’ skin refuses to leave._

_“Okay,” Stiles says, waiting for Derek to elaborate. It really wasn’t cute. Talia and his mom were talking to them about pack, explaining how Scott and Stiles weren’t pack even with their magic. That the only way for a human to become pack was for them to marry a member of the pack._

_Stiles made all the wrong connections in his head, and practically mauled Derek’s face in an effort to claim his future husband. It was terrible. The worst._

_Derek knocks Stiles’ chin lightly with his knuckles, making Stiles look at him._

_“Even though we’re not betrothed --”_

_“Intended, affianced?”_

_“Stiles.”_

_“Derek,” Stiles says, attempting to be serious. His heart is pounding wildly out of control. He knows Derek can hear it. It’s so loud, filling up Stiles’ head. He doesn’t know where Derek is going with this. The tension is overwhelming._

_Derek huffs through, all annoyed._

_“We should get married,” he says, abruptly. Stiles sputters._

_“What -- you --_ what _?”_

 _“I…” Derek trails off, ridiculous kaleidoscope eyes all wide and imploring. He looks unsure of himself for the first time pretty much_ ever _. “I think it would work out.”_

_“We’re teenagers,” Stiles says, staring at his feet. He’s wearing dirty Chucks today. When placed next to Derek’s pristine black boots, they look even rattier. Stiles thinks it’s a pretty decent metaphor for their differences. Motherless magical human, heir apparent to the greatest pack on the West Coast._

_“Old enough,” Derek says, so nonchalantly. “We could be engaged to be engaged.”_

_Stiles laughs. It’s silly. This is the silliest proposal ever, and Stiles is seriously considering it. Actually, he doesn’t have to think about it at all, he knows what his answer is. All the protesting is for show, to bicker a bit._

_“Engaged to be engaged sounds like a betrothal,” Stiles admits, fidgeting. Derek’s hand darts out to take Stiles’, tugging him closer. They’re staring at each other now, and Derek’s eyes are so, so soft. And Stiles is so, so in love._

_“Whatever,” Derek says, every inch the petulant teenager that he usually pretends not to be. “Just promise me, you’ll marry me one day. After mom retires. After you and Scott are hot-shot mages, and I’m the lowly leader of a pack of werewolves.”_

_“‘Lowly’,” Stiles snorts, feeling hysterical._

_“Stiles,” Derek pleads._

_“Yeah, okay,” Stiles says, breath catching in his throat. His eyes feel hot and tight, which is stupid. It’s not even a particularly romantic proposition, but Stiles’ chest is aching. “After -- after all that. I’ll marry you.”_

_And Derek… Derek jabs his fist into the arm victoriously and reels Stiles in for one of those picture-perfect kisses._

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!


End file.
